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They’re doing something. It’s not fake. I know. I’ve tested it.
I study at Creative International School in Riyadh. I came here because my parents thought it sounded modern, “safe for girls.” But something else is inside the building. Not physical. Not ghosts. Something wireless. Pressing. Sliding. I don’t know how to name it, but it’s alive and controlled by people. Human operators. From the Ministry. Or the military. Or both.

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In the hall near the art room, there’s a buzz — in the walls. Maybe it’s wiring. Maybe it’s them. It gets into my jaw. My handwriting has changed. My balance is off. I drop things. I talk to myself, but only to check if the voice that answers back is really me.

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